


The Taste of Copper on my Tongue

by Spoodlemonkey



Series: Inktober/Goretober [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Pack, Past Relationship(s), Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 18:30:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12305115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoodlemonkey/pseuds/Spoodlemonkey
Summary: So, vampires are a bit of a surprise.





	The Taste of Copper on my Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> My first time trying to write Peter and Peter/Chris, so hopefully it's not too ooc!! Let me know what you think :) Part of my Goretober/Inktober series.

He’s seen every supernatural creature that Beacon Hills can throw at them—from rogue omegas, to kanimas, to the pixies that had nested in their shed his junior year of high school. And, true to form, he’s always managed to come out on top.

So, vampires are a bit of a surprise.

He’d heard rumors of course flitting around the supernatural community but Talia had always disregarded them as just that—rumors. So, Peter hadn’t lent much credit to it either.

He’s starting to wish he’d payed more attention now.

They arrive one late fall evening as the days grow shorter and the nights longer. A small group, five or six, and considering the current size of their pack, it should be easy to take care of them, to either chase them out of town or put them down. Peter is leaning towards the latter option.

Stiles finds them first. Ever the clever detective he pieces together the disappearing students and the vague sightings surrounding them and manages to pinpoint their hunting grounds. After the third body turns up it becomes fairly obvious what has to be done. But the mythology on vampires is so diverse, so diluted, added to over the years by pop culture that it’s close to impossible to narrow it down to something that will with 100 percent certainty _work_.

Wolves have their claws and their fangs though and there’s not much that can stand up to an Argent bullet.

They’ve taken over an old warehouse, something Peter imagines his nephew would have loved to squat in a year ago, larger than the train car, more windows, a good place to angst about his life. The smell of decay sits heavy and sweet in the air, thick enough that even the human members of their pack have to cover their noses as they try to adjust. It’s late afternoon, the theory that vampires are weak during the day seems solid enough for them to go on and they slip into the cool, dim warehouse silently.

Peter leads Christopher and Allison through a side door, stays in front as they pick their way silently through. He can hear the heartbeats of the rest of the pack, their breathing, the scuff of a sneaker on concrete. The lack of noise from what they’re hunting is unnerving.

The skin on the back of his neck prickles, unease spreading through him. It’s all the warning he has before something built like _stone_ crashes into him and he loses his footing, hitting the floor hard enough that he slides before he can stop himself.

“Dad!” Allison screams and dazed Peter launces himself to his feet, freezing, claws outstretched, as his mind catches up to the scene before him.

Allison’s lost her bow, but its been replaced with a knife in hand. Christopher’s gun lies a few feet, the man held still by a woman as pale as snow, with the red eyes of an alpha wolf but the fangs of a viper. She has no heartbeat and she reeks of death. Her long, curled nails dig into Christopher’s throat, pin pricks of blood appearing and she laughs, a sound tinged with madness, and laps it away.

Peter growls, low in his throat and shifts his weight.

“Now, now,” the vampire taunts, pressing her nails harder. “You wouldn’t want me to kill him, would you?”

“Let him go and I won’t draw out your death.” Peter offers. Christopher’s gaze meets his, the glacier blue of his eyes worried, frustrated with himself.

“Allison, get out of here.” He says.

“No, Allison stay.” The vampire whoops.

“Stay and you can be dessert, although,” she peers closer at Peter, sniffs the air and grins, showing off rows of sharp yellow teeth. “You, you smell _delicious_.”

Further in the warehouse comes the sounds of shrieks and howls as the rest of the pack finds the other vampires. Peter bares his teeth in a mockery of a smile.

“It seems you’re running out of time.”

“I have all the time in the world,” she hisses, her humor gone. “if any of you come near me I’ll rip his throat out before you can blink an eye.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Christopher moves unexpectedly, the pocket knife he’d kept hidden now buried in her side. Peter lunges as her grip loosens, yanking Christopher out of her grasp. She screams, an insane, murderous sound and comes after them. Allison is too close, her knife up, ready, but still too human. He doesn’t think about it, just acts, placing himself between them, tackling the vampire back until they crash into the cement walls and dust and plaster rains down around them.

Fangs sink into the juncture of his neck and he howls in pain and rage, unable to shake her loose as she drinks greedily, moaning in ecstasy at the taste. Her nails shred his shirt, digging grooves down his back that sting and start to knit back together immediately. He digs his claws into her sides, the softness of her belly, feels his skin rip as she gorges herself on his blood.

It’s weakening him he realizes, blood loss and a heat spreading from the wound, softening his muscle, sapping his strength that must be some sort of venom.

And then there’s a gunshot and his ears are ringing and her clinging weight is gone.

He sinks to the floor, shoves her limp body off of him and watches as the ceiling spins above, coming in and out of focus.

“Peter.” Christopher kneels over him, expression pinched with worry. He says something but it sounds like he’s under water and he can’t understand him. Warm, rough hands come up to cup his face, the gesture achingly familiar. He leans into the touch like he’s twenty again and they have their whole lives ahead of them.

Christopher’s mouth is moving, forming words but Peter can’t hear him, can no longer focus on him.

He passes out.

::

He’s always a little surprised to wake up to be completely honest. His blood feels like it’s on fire. Sweat clings to his skin and he shakes, burning up, aching all the way to his bones. His fangs bite into his lip and he tastes the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. He doesn’t know what’s happening. He’s terrified to find out. The loft ceiling is above him and he twists, shaking with muscle spasms that rock his body. He’s in his living room, or rather Derek’s living room.

“You’re alright,” Christopher breaks away from Allison and Isaac, coming to kneel next to him. If he concentrates he can hear the others throughout the loft, counts their heat beats and finds none missing. “Your body is just rejecting the venom.”

Nausea claws at him and Christopher has him up and off the couch as his stomach starts to churn. The bathroom light burns his eyes as he collapses next to the toilet and heaves, bringing up his last meal. Thick, congealed blood splatters the bowl as the venom is forced from his body. Shaking, he feels like he did after his first full moon, weak, fragile, coming apart at the seams. His arms can’t quite seem to hold him up. Christopher grabs him though, ever observant, and holds him up as he dry heaves into the porcelain bowl.

Acid stings his throat, tears in his eyes and he tries to catch his breath as his stomach cramps.

Christopher reaches up and flushes the toilet when it becomes clear he’s finished for the moment, washing away the dark, black blood. He settles Peter against the wall on the cold floor and stands to turn on the shower.

“No,” Peter rasps, a mockery of his usual drawl when he realizes what Christopher is doing. He doesn’t pause, unlacing his boots and toeing them and his socks off. He strips his Henley showing off miles of toned torso, a smattering of grey hairs across his chest. Peter looks his fill, taking in the familiar sight, the unfamiliar scars. He can name a handful of them but over the years they’ve multiplied.

“You can’t even stand on your own,” Christopher deftly undoes his belt and if he weren’t feeling like his body was trying to _kill_ him he’d be enjoying watching him strip. “And you stink. It will help.”

He can’t deny that a shower sounds amazing right now. The fire in his blood has settled to a low burn and the cool water sounds heavenly. And this isn’t their first shower together.

Christopher takes his silence as consent and hauls him up, stripping him quickly and efficiently. He doesn’t hesitate with their boxers, leaves them in a pile on the floor and hustles Peter into the shower, leaning him up against the wall as he toys with the water temperature.

Peter will readily admit that he can appreciate the finer things in life—a long, luxurious shower being one of them. His nephew has long since learned not to complain about the amount of time he spends in the bathroom if he doesn’t want the time doubled in revenge.

The first droplets are a shock to his system and he hisses at the sudden cold until his body starts to adjust. His knees buckle suddenly and the only thing that keeps him up is Christopher.

They’re pressed flush against one another, large, calloused hands hold him up, wrap around his waist, rest on his lower back. Their knees tangle. His breath catches in his chest as their chests brush, press together—he thinks he can feel how hard Christopher’s heart is beating, he can certainly hear it.

“I know you probably had an ulterior motive,” Christopher’s voice is low, the brush of hot air against his cheek. “But thank you for putting yourself between Allison and that thing.”

Peter thinks of a million things he could say, the truth being that it would have torn her to pieces. He doesn’t say anything instead.

His hands have curled themselves around Christopher’s back, feeling the strong muscles, his shoulder blades, the warmth of his skin. Pressed against his hip Christopher is a thick heat and his stomach clenches, heats, with the memory of a much younger version of this man pressed against him.

“One would think you’re happy to see me,” He purrs, summons up a sly smirk.

“You must be feeling better.” The other man mutters and moves to pull away. Peter lets himself go limp, plays up his weakness and Christopher reacts accordingly, he holds him tighter to keep them both on their feet.

“Just a little light headed.” He lies. The others mans eyes narrow, but he doesn’t call him on it.

::

Realizing he has no clean clothes downstairs, Peter gets to parade through the loft with a towel wrapped around his hips. Most of the pack has gone home, but he does get to shock Stiles who’s still sitting on the couch when he comes out. The teenagers eye brows shoot up, mouth falling open and Peter languishes in the hormones he _reeks_ of. Mostly though, he entertains himself with how much it pisses off his nephew. Derek glowers at him as he makes his way to his room and he knows he’ll be getting the silent treatment later.

He finally gets a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he tosses the towel to the side and pulls on a fresh pair of boxer briefs and jeans. The spot where the vampire bit into him is still red, flushed like it’s fighting off an infection but the majority of the bite has healed. He presses a finger to it, hissing at how sore it still is.

The showers worked wonders though and he’s feeling stronger, more like himself. Disappointment blooms in his chest as he comes back out to find Christopher has left with Allison. He ruthlessly shoves it aside. It was a lifetime ago, something he thought he’d let go of.

He turns in early that night, lays there for hours unable to fall asleep despite the events of the day. His body aches, skin still a little too tight and he thinks about shifting, of going out to the preserve and running until he’s exhausted. He’s not sure he wants to be near the old house tonight though.

His phone pings as he’s sitting up to go see if there’s anything on television he can distract himself with, or a book he can lose himself in the pages of.

It’s a text from an unknown number and he opens it. Anticipation sparks through him, lights him up in a way he hasn’t felt in _years_. A smirk crawls it’s way across his face as he types back a quick affirmation.

_Meet me at our spot_ , Christopher has written and unwilling to resist, or perhaps even _unable_ , Peter complies.


End file.
